Her father, driving the farm truck, says: — All the wheat is in corn bugs, it’s time to treat it.

Weirdly bright and high sun. Wheat’s yellow ears in the fields. Grains are eaten by ruinous corn bugs. They are a firm grip over the heavy field; so many of them that it can be seen from a galloping vehicle.

The turquoise flash on the gray horizon.

Worms on the wet sand: an unbearable, pungent, agitated, amorous smell.

What makes a certain being a tree.

The darkness of its burning, the pace of its smoldering. How vividly the water burns, how the air smolders inside the fibrous vine.

The grass flames up on the hillsides like a spring fire, as if the earth sent forth an inward heat to greet the returning sun; not yellow but green is the color of its flame.

Dark green. When earlier I was drawing a towering military antenna neatly fastened to the ground, men in nice work uniforms sat next to me. I didn't hear what they were talking about. I did not catch their words. They smoked and departed.

Does not make a certain being a tree.

My friends have arranged a nursery for gorgeous organisms on their property. They have nocturnal, sensitive, thoughtful plants that I adore now. Smooth, moist, careless animals with trembling throats, which I adored earlier.

But my gaze fixes solely on a bird. She has a pointy mercury plumage, a proportional yellow beak, yellow rims around her eyes, and a neat black crest on the head. I very much want this bird. I try to figure out what documents are needed to take it with me, but I find myself stuck in the thick of Australian English.

I leave distressed. By the hot road, loam colors allure me. Soon, I no longer desire the mercury bird.

A quiet twilight street opens to the big water on both sides. Two boys silently carry large speakers. Maybe they want a party.

Nothing better will come. We will never move faster. We will never see more clearly. We will never know more closely.

Along the water's edge two girls walk, saying: "Good evening." They have short haircuts, discuss a popular philosopher and try the water temperature with their toes. The sea holds slippery clay and sharp stones.

All day long, from morning till evening, the wind and water are quiet. By dusk, a dead calm sets in. You can hear the engine of a passing war cruiser.

I fiddled with bumblebees, but in the darkness, they quit their job. The ants remained, but in the darkness, my machines quit their job.

There are many copies.

Atop the hill stands radar equipment. Below lies a dungeon, a hideout. The door is draped with red fabric, behind it yellow light, dance music, loud voices.

Two crows chase away a flock of young seagulls.

Waves, ripples, sharp glares, the heavy opacity — to water. An elastic, weightless skin. In humans, this is language. At night sailors beat each other near the liquor store. A cozy, round dent in thick glass. Glass is like an eggshell. My little hatchlings. Blood on limestone slabs. That is how you deactivate the shadow of an infinite ocean.

There are green horsetail and rose petals in the dry reed litter. Two black eyes — two black spiders, flexible, silky, with straight, acute limbs. For a long, not the slightest movement, then a rapid cascade of shiny eyes, chests, abdomens, paws. Disconnection, body calculation, cascade, disconnection. A mouse peeks out of the rosehip. Consciousness may be completely different, but the design turns out to be similar.

I will be many, buzz even as a swarm of motorbikes, be borne, body by flying body, lofted under those beautiful and un-fused elytra which we will all hold over our backs. So finally I too will shine like a violet ground beetle under a stone. When I took her out of my net, and opened its gorgeous wings, I was nearer fainting with delight and excitement than I have ever been in my life; my heart beat violently, and the blood rushed to my head, leaving a headache for the rest of the day.

Black flame over the night sky. The alder grove emanates long tongues. Decayed Leaves, murky water, fungal hives rise as a scream. A wingless seagull hides behind a stone. Everything around gently sleeps; the island is rotten and crawls upward. Solid black tongues, boneless hands, move across the night sky, over the trees. Muffled blows are added to the polybody cry. A chain of three heavy military helicopters flies through the delicate hands. The cloud disperses, immediately regathers its braids. It's dangerous to stay close, it eats the skin; I gather my belongings and run away. Then it continues to devour for a month more.